


The Pound of Spice

by Accidentallytechohazardous



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, Attempted Kidnapping, Car Accidents, M/M, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 13:44:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12607936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Accidentallytechohazardous/pseuds/Accidentallytechohazardous
Summary: The year before his second child is due to graduate high school, Kensei notices that Shuuhei has befriended the enigmatic neighbor who lives in the apartment below them.





	The Pound of Spice

The body is a confused and unsound thing, when you come down to it. No matter what kind you’re in, it’s all just electricity and proteins trying to launch themselves from one far corner of the nervous system to the other. The brain thrusts itself into overdrive, swimming from the black void of unconscious. From the brain, a telegram signal climbs down the spine all the way down to each toe, which brings the whole body to rise, like a new island surfacing the ocean, from the comfort of a warm and squeaking bed.

Kensei staggers to the kitchen, not yet awake enough to be cursing his stiff knee. The doctor said he’s supposed to be wearing a brace for it, a big ugly thing like a cast or a tourniquet, but Kensei hates it and the way it feels and the way it smells when it collects sweat on the back of his knee all day and he hates that doctor, fuck you Kisuke. And that’s all there is to address about the matter.

“Kensei!” Mashiro’s voice is a caterwaul, tapping her foot sternly in socks with neon stars on them, wearing his oversized faded hoodie that has long-since been splattered in paint. “You overslept! You missed the cat coming by on the fire escape, I gave her some tuna and a head-scritch.”

Kensei grunts first, finding his voice. His hand closes around the familiar grip of a porcelain handle, mechanically bringing the bitter flow of coffee to his lips. How did that get there? “You should’ve woken me up.”

“Shuuhei wanted to, but I said no.” Mashiro folds her arms, enormous sleeves flapping. Her hair is still wavy and damp from the shower, curling at the ends. She looks almost like she did when she was a little girl, putting cardboard boxes over her head like astronaut helmets. “You’re not late yet, so it’s okay for you to be a sleepyhead for now.”

Eyes scan the kitchen, the room now coming into focus. He sees Shuuhei, already wearing his school uniform, standing over the kitchen stove with his back to Kensei, the smell of eggs and toast perfuming the air.

Kensei hovers, looking over Shuuhei’s shoulder as he applies bacon to the skillet. “Move, kid. Making breakfast is my job.”

The look Shuuhei gives him is nearly defiant, a microscopic raise of his eyebrows under dark bangs. “I got it. Relax, you’ll have all evening to be king of the kitchen.” And loads up three plates while Kensei grumbles back to the kitchen table.

It’s raining outside, wet and noisy with water pattering down on rooftops and trickling across telephone wires. Work will probably be slow and messy, but the inside of the apartment is warm and alive. Kensei finds himself looking out the window as he mops up egg yolk with his toast, hypnotized by the sound of cars sloshing through puddles while Mashiro’s musical cackling rings like bells.

-

Kensei thinks he would have been happy as a construction worker for his whole life. He likes building things. There’s a simple beauty in putting together something big, whether it’s a building or a highway shoulder, coming to a whole piece-by-piece. The sharp, earthy smell of asphalt and wet cement, the rhythmic pulsation of a power drill like pounding heart.

But what’s just good for Kensei isn’t necessarily good for two kids. He has, after all, two college tuitions to pay for. Not to mention his doctor’s bills, Mashiro’s medication, Shuuhei’s therapy, car payments, whatever else will arise as soon as Kensei assumes they’re in the black and pushes them back to where they started. He doesn’t want the kids to feel guilty, but Kensei knows he can’t keep their finances a secret when he shows up at Lisa’s place with a briefcase full of bills and needs someone with an analytical mind and nerves of steel to help him sort everything out.

So Kensei bit the bullet, not expecting much, and was surprised that the promotion to foreman was practically handed over to him. Turns out he’s better at building a team than he thought he was. Moving up to project manager was more problematic, but Kensei finds the work agrees with him. His knee and back are also appreciative that he spends more time telling other people how to do their job rather than dragging around lumber all day himself. The bills are not as scary. He can put away some money in his savings account without it immediately disappearing the minute he takes his eyes off it.

“Pretty soon it’ll be socially acceptable fer you ta’ retire.” Shinji remarks to Kensei over a beer, grinning broadly as he is often want to do. He looks infuriatingly much younger than Kensei does, he and Rose are much more inclined to preening, skin as smooth and hair as soft as they did in their increasingly distant 20’s.

Kensei snorts, tearing his eyes away from Shinji’s obnoxiously bright tie and to the baseball game above the bar. “Don’t even joke about that.”

“Oh, come now! Would it really be so bad?” Rose’s voice swells on Kensei’s other side, swirling his glass of chardonnay like the fancy fuck he is. “Haven’t you thought about what you would do if you weren’t in construction anymore? If you were still inclined to work, you could focus on your cooking. Get some hobbies. Focus on your relationships.”

Kensei grimaces like a child being introduced to something yucky. As much as these two men are his closest friends, he feels this conversation is dipping into unpleasant waters. “I have hobbies.”

“There’s always grindr.” Shinji proposes, and as Rose nods solemnly Kensei feels his soul begin to eject itself from his body. “Lisa pro’lly knows some people.”

“I suppose Mashiro would move out first, though…” Rose suggests idly with his long finger tapping his long chin, and Kensei eyes him suddenly with suspicion.

“Why’d Mashiro have’ta move out? It’s not like if I started dating someone I’d move them into her room.”

Rose clucks his tongue, eyes narrowing. “Well, if I’ve perhaps touched a nerve there-”

“No, it’s fine.” Kensei grunts and sinks into his seat, snapping the cap off his next beer and watching the game. His team is losing. Ah yes, sports. The greatest barrier of reasonable conversation yet developed by human beings. “Forget it.”

-

As a father, Kensei isn’t strict. Mashiro is 23, Shuuhei will 18 in the summer. They’re young adults and they’re inclined to do crazy things like come and go at odd hours and be gone all day. All that Kensei asks of them is that they let him know when they’ll be home late. It’s the only rule he’s stringent about.

(Perhaps, yes, it comes from an emotional place. Like last year when Shuuhei was out with friends and didn’t call home once, and it wasn’t until long past midnight that Kensei’s phone finally rang. He had Love drive him to the emergency room.

Kensei had been in the hospital room with Shuuhei when they let him out of surgery, and told him that was it for the vision in his right eye. He was there when the cops came, Shuuhei still a little doped up on painkillers, and because Shuuhei was a minor they tried to grill him on what happened, what he was doing out past curfew, how much had he been drinking. And Kensei, barely shaking with rage, had to kick them out, unsurprised when the official report came back to reveal Shuuhei had been sober as a judge, and the front of his car got totaled by an unknown drunk driver.

When Shuuhei woke up, he apologized about wrecking Kensei’s car. As if that was what mattered, and not the fact that a girl had died in the crash, and Shuuhei was permanently disfigured. The tears didn’t come until after Kensei took him home, and Shuuhei could be alone in his room with what happened.)

(Maybe it goes back even further than that. To the time Mashiro was six, and nearby got abducted from the playground one sunny summer day. Kensei might not have even noticed until she screamed, ear-popping and hateful, and he saw a man grabbing her by the arm and trying to drag her towards the parking lot.

Kensei isn’t a violent person. Being angry exhausts him, and hate just makes him feel sad. But even looking back on it, there isn’t a doubt in Kensei’s mind that he would have killed that man. He would have gladly smashed that animal’s head open on the concrete with his bare hands, no regrets. It was only another parent calling the police that prevented him from doing so, hands vibrating with rage and teeth clenched so hard his face hurt and Mashiro sobbing into his shirt.)

(Memories like that keep him up way late into the night, nursing the realization that there is no clean way to be a parent. He, Kensei, can do everything right- and he certainly hasn’t- and something will still go wrong. It’s a hell of a thing to live in this world.)

When Shuuhei comes home two hours late, Kensei isn’t mad, he’s just disappointed. He certainly had not spent one of those two hours compulsively checking his phone, waiting for a call. A text. Anything. Jeeze, he doesn’t ask for much.

“I was just downstairs.” Shuuhei says dismissively, taking a carton of juice out of the fridge while he talks to Kensei. The school uniform looks small on him, the kid is growing like a weed, already as tall as Kensei is and showing no signs of stopping. “One of the people who lives on the floor below us- his front door was jammed, so I fixed it for him.”

“It took you two hours to fix a jammed door?” Kensei asks. He does so nonchalantly, and not in a way that would imply what he’s really asking is ‘why didn’t you ask me to help, then?’

Shuuhei sips juice plaintively, standing to his full, willowy height with his back against the fridge. “No, Tousen-san asked me to come in for tea afterwards as a thank-you. It would have been rude if I refused. He’s nice.”

He stamps on that last sentence as a clear warning to Kensei, urging him to not get paranoid. Or maybe just to relax. Kensei realizes he doesn’t know a lot of their neighbors, in a big apartment complex like this it seems like everyone around him is moving out or in as soon as he looks at them. If he’s ignored, then he’s used to it.

-

Several more times, Shuuhei reports he has stopped by Tousen-san’s place to help with various household tasks, to the point where Kensei becomes concerned that this man shouldn’t just hire a handyman or move to a building with a more effective landlord.

“I think he’s lonely.” Shuuhei explains, washing grease off his hands in the sink from helping fix Tousen’s kitchen pipes. Kensei has to admit that if he was living alone, a mature and eloquent kid like Shuuhei would be nice company to have around.

“Maybe he’s a vampire.” Mashiro suggests, not looking up from her DS screen. “Or a ghost.”

“He’s not a ghost.”

“But Shuuuuuheeeeei… No one’s lived in the downstairs apartment in thirty years! Oooooooh!”

Kensei takes off his boots from work, the bottom of them caked with cement, and sighs. “What is it with all you kids and cryptids these days?”

“We’re all looking for an escape from the monotony of this mortal coil.” Shuuhei answers, drying his hands on the kitchen rag and pulling a cast-iron kettle down from the shelf to set it up for tea. Kensei decides to relinquish this conversation on existentialism in favor of kicking his shoes against the wall and putting on his comfy slippers. There’s a big ol’ armchair with his name written all over it in front of the tv.

Before Kensei can make his mighty pilgrimage from the foyer to the tv room, a knock on the front door drags him back. Not concerning- it’s common for them to get visitors unannounced. Kensei’s friends have all known each other so long, any semblance of privacy between them is dead. Shuuhei’s friends have a tendency to invite themselves over and loiter about Kensei’s home and eat all his food. Such is the circle of life.

It’s not one of Kensei’s annoying pals on the other side of the door, however, nor is it an errant teenager, which causes Kensei to double-take and doubt his surroundings for a hot minute.

“Hello, is this the residence of Hisagi Shuuhei?” The voice is low and even, coming from the lips of a dark and handsome face with a distinct ring of eloquence. The man is dressed nicely, wearing a gray button-up shirt and an orange scarf draped around his broad shoulders, under long coils of black hair. He bears, in the space between himself and Kensei, a stainless steel pan covered pristinely in tinfoil.

Kensei has never been visited by a neighbor before. He didn’t think things like this even happened outside of primetime tv shows about the suburbs where everyone has neighborhood dinner parties and PTA meetings. Not taking his eyes off the stranger, Kensei leans backwards in the direction of his son’s room. “Shuuhei!”

“Tousen-san,” Shuuhei intercepts Kensei at the door and swinging between him and the man like the decisive swinging of a guillotine. A bossy, fussy kid. “Is everything okay? Is the sink still dripping?”

“No, it’s perfect.” Tousen says, and Kensei suddenly begins to grasp why having Shuuhei around to do some chores was so useful. Tousen smiles gently, crinkling the lines of his face that sit underneath his sunglasses. As he lifts up the tray a fraction, the white and red cane hanging from his wrist swings at his side. “I wanted to thank you for your help recently- and also apologize for taking you away from your studies to help a lonely old man. I had some extra things left over, so I made your family some banana bread. May I come inside?”

Now, a few things; A) as a self-identified old man, Kensei does not approve of other people calling themselves old when they clearly are not. Tousen looks like he’s forty at the most, and even then looks insultingly good for his age. Maybe younger. But B) when a man is offered banana bread in his own home, only a barbarian would turn that down.

Kensei opens the door to receive Tousen as he hands the tray to Shuuhei, then begins navigating himself to the kitchen table.

The sound of commotion and the smell of a baked good summons Mashiro from her room, bouncing in with her goggles askew atop her head. Her palms slap against her cheek, eyes wide with surprise. “The ghost is real!”

“Mashiro.” Kensei says warningly, but Tousen just inclines her head towards her with something like a thin smirk on his lips.

“This must be the sister I’m always hearing about.” He says… enigmatically. Kensei hopes Shuuhei hasn’t been sassy about his family behind their backs. “I thought I recognized that voice. I’ve heard you on the fire escape.”

“Kensei says my voice carries.” Mashiro bounces over to the kitchen counter while Shuuhei prepares a serving knife and some plates. “This smells really good. Did you make it? Shuuhei, doesn’t it smell good? Look, smell it! I won’t even smash your head down into it like that one time with the cake.”

“No food fights!” Kensei says before Shuuhei can get that reactive glint in his eye, one one that only eggs Mashiro on. To think that Kensei once assumed this would all be behind him once the kids left middle school. “I cannot stress that enough.”

Tousen looks for all the world like he hasn’t registered this side of the conversation at all, though he does raise a hand in decline when Shuuhei tries to offer him a plate of the banana bread. “No, I’m sorry. I know I did just invite myself in, but I shouldn’t be staying.”

“You’re sure?” Shuuhei sounds disappointed, eyebrows knit together. “It’s no trouble.”

He glances towards Kensei meaningfully, like he’s meant to do something. Kensei isn’t sure how to nonverbally remind Shuuhei that having someone stay in one’s home against their will is a practice called kidnapping, and is generally frowned upon in polite society. So Kensei just shrugs at him and replies back to Tousen, “It’s good finally meetin’ you.” As a polite member of society does.”

“Likewise, thank you.” Tousen stands up. “Oh, and don’t worry about returning the pan too soon. I have plenty of cooking ware at home.”

He takes himself to the door, walking past Kensei as he does so. He’s not a particularly tall man, Kensei notices Tousen is just a tad shorter than himself. When he walks past, Kensei catches a breath of ginger and cinnamon on him. And, of course, fresh baked bread.

When the door finally closes behind Tousen, and it’s just the three residents of the apartment left to themselves, there’s a beat of silence. A beat broken by Shuuhei turning an accusing glare towards Mashiro. “Nice job. You really made him feel welcome.”

Mashiro blinks owlishly in shock,before her big, blue eyes quickly narrow into cat-like slits. “Me? What’d I do?”

“Nothing.” Shuuhei shoves the tray into the back of the fridge hard enough for the metal to slam against the back wall. His voice is low and dripping with vitriol. “You just have to be so weird…”

Pink shocks Mashiro’s cheeks, her frown twisting into a scowl. “Nobody asked you!” and Kensei has a feeling that it’s only Shuuhei skulking back to his bedroom that prevents a verbal catfight from breaking out.

The door slams behind Shuuhei, and in his absence Mashiro’s head whips around to give Kensei a challenging look as if daring him to say something. Kensei, never particularly in a chatty mood, feels a particular loss of words just now.

-

People don’t expect Kensei’s home to be as neat as it is. When most imagine a single father living with two kids, they tend to picture an apocalyptic wasteland before a clean apartment. They’re perplexed to find Kensei keeps things as clean and orderly as he can while working full time, and urging his children to absorb similarly clean habits.

It’s a habit he’s developed when living with his friends- Rose, Shinji, Hiyori, Love, Lisa, Hachigen. Six people who, for all purposes, probably should have never lived together in the first place. Seven people who were all, in their own way, human disasters, and six people who Kensei felt compelled to take care of, in his own way. It was that same compulsion that lead him to adopt Mashiro when he had no idea what he was doing.

The process of cleaning is soothing to him. The repetitive motions are satisfying. Much in the same way he likes the smells of construction and the powerful reek of the earth, he likes the striking smell of cleanliness. Lemon aromas, warm and soapy water.

The smell of the laundry room is, to Kensei, one of the high points of the apartment complex. It’s in a nice neighborhood, close to the grocery store he likes, but the laundry room is nice and clean and spacious. It smells like detergent even when no one is using it, the fragrance overwhelming Kensei’s senses the moment he steps inside.

He’s in the middle of transitioning the first load from the wash to the dryer, when he notices a cat run between his ankles. Kensei hadn’t even realized he wasn’t alone in the room until Tousen appears at the machine a few rows down from his.

The machine door swings open, Tousen bends over his laundry basket without a word- Kensei assumes that he is unaware of Kensei’s presence.

For a moment, Kensei’s head swims between the urge to announce himself and to resist. He’s never been good at chit-chat. It takes, as Rose would say, a nice long while to know him.

Tousen looks different than he did the other day, the black tendrils of his braids tied back in a heavy ponytail drapping down his back. A white cotton t-shirt stretches over his body. That first night Kensei assumed that Tousen was skinny, now without the baggy clothing in the way he suddenly looks a much fuller man than he did. The cat, a white a brown little thing Kensei could easily pick up with one hand, slithers around Tousen’s ankles and chirps at him companionably.

After waffling a good, long while, Kensei clears his throat. Tousen’s head angles half an inch towards him, but otherwise he’s stagnant. Louder, in his clearest voice. “Tousen-san.”

Now his head jerks upwards, now fully turning to face Kensei. It’s jarring to see him without his sunglasses. Tousen’s eyes are heavy-lidded, the color of lavender tea. “Hisagi-san.”

It’s a very common mistake- Kensei has been addressed as Hisagi-san and Kuna-san by teachers. “It’s Muguruma, actually. Shuuhei kept his given name after he was adopted.” His eyes shift back and forth between Tousen and the inside of his drying machine, gradually filling up with his, Mashiro and Shuuhei’s colors. “Mashiro did too. Gettin’ a name changed for a minor is a hassle.”

“I can imagine.” Tousen says. The cat sits in the bottom of his empty basket as he fills the machine with quarters. His fingers, square and knob-knuckled, map the edges of the machine controls. His short nail traces the edge of the control panels, and from there finds the corner to the start button.

The machine thrums to life, pulsating like a lively organ and continuing to perfume the room with clean detergent. Tousen sits down on his heels and scratches the cat behind it’s little soft ear, and it mews at him shrilly. “And is there… is it just you and your children?”

“Yeah.” Kensei is almost positive he didn’t imagine that hesitation in Tousen’s voice. “Though they’re hardly kids anymore. They just act like it.”

“They’re lively.” Tousen replies, which Kensei is inclined to believe is a compliment. “That must have been a lot of work.”

“It’s… character-building.” He admits. “I cook. I clean. I separate my colors from my whites.”

“Well, they all look the same to me.”

Kensei feels himself color a little bit, warm in the face. When he looks over he, he realized Tousen is standing, walking closer to him with measured steps and the cat bundled in his arms like a baby.

“Are you going to ask me if I’ve always been blind?” Tousen says placidly.

Kensei grunts, looking down at his hands on the rim of the machine and realizing he hasn’t yet finished filling it. “It isn’t my business. Anyways I would guess you’ve been asked enough times by now.”

“You’d guess correct.” Tousen’s face is angled down, towards the cat purring thunderously into his chest. He looks very serious, though Kensei has never been fantastic at guessing what people are thinking. If he had to assume, Kensei would guess that words like ‘serious’ and ‘contemplative’ are used to describe Tousen a lot.

The realization of what is happening rises slowly, steadily, like a crest of a drizzle falling from a blanket of gray clouds into a full downpour. Like the glare of sunlight off the surface of rippled water, calm and easy.

“Do you drink coffee?” Kensei asks suddenly, in a tone and volume that surprises himself.

Tousen’s lips open and close “Well, I prefer tea-”

“Me, too.” Kensei cuts him off. Which is a lie. “We should have it some time. Tea. If you want to.”

The smile Tousen gives him is unreadable. Enigmatic, but not unfriendly. It’s closer than it is distant. “Perhaps some time this weekend.”

-

Kensei doesn’t mind driving. He doesn’t love it, but he’s gotten very used to it after shuttling the kids around. After Shuuhei’s accident the kid was gunshy about getting behind the wheel, but as that’s wearing off Kensei is learning to appreciate having the car to himself again, being aware of his surroundings while trekking down the same roads he always goes by.

He pulls in front of the office building, watching the headlights of other cars in the parking lot spill across the asphalt. Shuuhei opens the passenger door and climbs in, tossing his backpack into the back seat. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Kensei says, waiting for two other teenagers to cross in front of him to their cars. A parking lot full of kids is like a fucking minefield and some of Kensei’s calmness recedes, but he summons it back forth. “How was session?”

“Fine. We talked about graduation and coping with anxiety and stuff. Aoga wants to go to the soccer game this weekend.” Shuuhei sinks against the car seat, rubbing some of the cold out of his fingers.

Kensei ‘hmm’s as he pulls off of the curb. This has been part of their weekly routine for three years, taking Shuuhei to group therapy, Kensei going to the coffee shop across the street where they play that classic rock music he likes, then picking Shuuhei up and getting dinner to bring home to Mashiro.

At his age and ability, Shuuhei is more than capable of taking himself to therapy sessions alone, but Kensei has a feeling that it’s good for them to be together afterwards, when Shuuhei is still processing the experiences of the session. Besides, this will be their last year doing this.

“Do you wanna go?”

“I don’t think so.” Shuuhei leans his elbow against the car window. “Being outside in the cold, watching sports in a crowded stand where it’s noisy and sweaty. I think it’d make me miserable, I don’t know how he does it.”

Kensei doesn’t tell Shuuhei that he thinks he should go. This is a thing that Shuuhei’s therapist helped him focus on- problem-solving. Compromising. Shuuhei often looks for his approval, Kensei has to be careful about how he uses it. “So what do you think you’ll do?”

“Maybe see if I can talk him into going to a concert instead. Come home and play video games after.” Shuuhei says.

“It wouldn’t still be loud and crowded at a concert?”

“Well yeah, but if the music is good then I don’t mind.”

Shuuhei is always particular about what he does and doesn’t tolerate. As a much younger child, his threshold was very, very low. Prone to fussiness and emotional outbursts in the face of discomfort. A volatile child, Shuuhei could inflict to meltdowns over anything that caused him stress, even being dropped off for elementary school or having Mashiro babysit when Shuuhei wanted Kensei to be home.

He’s changed a lot. Kensei catches glances of Shuuhei’s reflection bouncing off the curve of the windshield, the stony expression of him looking almost cat-like.

“Kensei,” Neon lights roll over Shuuhei’s dark face, his long jaw and thin nose- all things that visually set him apart from Kensei, uniquely himself. “Did you ever think about going to therapy yourself?”

Kensei thinks for a moment, watching the cars ahead of him slow to a crawl in the face of a floating crimson orb above the intersection. He has always tried to be honest with Shuuhei and Mashiro. Or, at least, as honest as he’s capable of being. “No. Maybe I should’ve though.”

“When you were transitioning?”

“Nope.” Kensei frowns. “Definitely not then.”

Gender and sexuality is another thing Kensei has tried his best to be open about with the kids, even though the language he’s used has evolved. Statements like ‘I was born a girl and then when I grew older I became a boy’ graduated to ‘This is what it means to be trans, and you need to know this because it impacts many of the people you will have in your life, including me’.

Kensei is lucky to have his own found family. Bringing his own kids into that family means making them resources for others. It’s social responsibility, or some shit like that.

The sense of unease within Kensei ebbs like heart palpitations, rising and falling unevenly until they come to a peak. Kensei’s knuckles flex on the steering wheel, turning the car in the direction of home.

“You know,” Kensei begins. “Shuuhei, I didn’t want you t’ go to therapy because I wanted to-”

What? To change him? But isn’t that exactly what Kensei did want?

The fact that Shuuhei was an exhausting child was not, itself, the reason that Kensei had him go to therapy. At least, he doesn’t see it that way. Shuuhei was adopted when he was five, his adolescent personality was already developing. Kensei knew that Shuuhei would be facing difficulties regarding his anxiety and immaturity. There were no surprises there. Therapy was supposed to be a tool to teach Shuuhei how to cope on his own. It was not for him to stifle and internalize his emotions so they’d be out of Kensei’s way.

Kensei licks the outside of his teeth, trying to select his words purposefully. “… I want you… to be happy. I believed that goin’ to therapy, and learning ways to deal with negative emotions in a healthy way was important to that.”

Shuuhei is quiet for a minute. That’s probably a normal reaction to such a loaded, emotional statement that Kensei made almost out of the blue, but it makes him nervous for those brief, silent beats all the same.

“I know.” Shuuhei finally says. His voice is a little high, Kensei wonders if he’s trying to act nonchalant to reassure Kensei that he’s fine, that he knows Kensei’s intentions are unselfish. That he’s a good father. “I was just wondering, maybe… therapy was good for me. I know it was good for Mashiro, too. Maybe it would be good for you, if you ever wanted to try it.”

Is Shuuhei worried about him? The thought makes Kensei feel as touched as he does uncomfortable. He always wanted to appear reliable and confident for his family. But sometimes that contradicts his desire to be honest with them. Can you still be strong if part of your world involves the whirling storm of insecurities and adult fears that Kensei has more or less acclimated to?

“Maybe. I dunno. I should think about it.” Kensei admits. Therapy can’t be that hard, after all, if Kensei has been sending his kids to do it for more years than he can count. “But in return, you gotta show me the mental health resources on the colleges you applied for. And you gotta promise that if you even think you might need them, you’ll take yourself there.”

Shuuhei chuffs, teenagerly. “Yeah. Okay, Kensei. I promise.” And Kensei pulls the car into the warm, familiar glow of the local Chinese take-out place.

-

Kensei has been inside of Tousen’s apartment a few times now. Enough to be used to the dark interior, the only real light coming from the windows with the curtains drawn wide open. Tousen has an affinity for plants. And his cat, Cricket, has an affinity for jumping on couches and tables and screaming.

Tousen is nursing his temple when Kensei comes in, a pursed frown on his serious face. “A headache. Only Wednesday and it’s been such a long week.”

“Sit down, then. I’ll make the tea.” Kensei squeezes Tousen’s shoulder and invites himself into the small kitchenette. He’s been here and watched Tousen enough to know where he keeps things. The kettle, the teapot, the intimidating wall of different teas that have more names than Kensei cares to read.

“Thank you. Any black tea would be fine, please.” Tousen sinks into a kitchen chair, motivating Cricket to strut up and paw at his ankle for attention. “Social work is what they call a ‘hyper-emotional’ field of labor. When a client has a bad day, I have a bad day. And vice versa, unfortunately.”

“Oh yeah?” Kensei fills the kettle and waits for the sound of water beating at the interior, heat desperately trying to escape. “That sounds rough.” He’d guess there are a few people who wish Kensei were a little more ‘hyper-emotional’.

“I suppose. It’s nobody’s fault- except, maybe, my personality.”

Kensei leans against the edge of the kitchen counter. Tousen, predictably, doesn’t have much in the way of decoration in his apartment. Aside from a surprising number of potted plants, Kensei recalls as he narrowly avoids toppling a succulent at his elbow. Kensei thought he was clean, but Tousen’s home is almost frighteningly organized.

“C’mon, it sounds like you might be a little hard on yourself.” He says, because he can’t imagine Tousen causing anyone much grief. And Kensei has quite a bit of experience with people who have difficult personalities.

But Tousen laces his fingers together, eyebrows furrowed just a bit and looking cross. He has sunglasses that he wears even indoors sometimes when he forgets he’s wearing them, white rimmed and looking a little bit 80’s, if Kensei is to frank. They hide his long eyelashes and his milky pupils. “You think so? I’m afraid not everyone would agree. I’ve been getting a series of complaints at my job lately from coworkers explaining how difficult I am to work with. Evidently, I’m too strict and something of a perfectionist. Something about it being damaging for moral.”

“Huh.” Steam rises from the kettle, rising steam beginning to sing. Kensei scratches his chin with blunt nails. “Yeah, I… really can’t see how that would be the case.”

“I can’t really give you a good example. Maybe just being around irritating people makes me become irritating myself. Or else that work makes me anxious.”

It’s relieving that Tousen seems to be much more talkative in his own space. Kensei likes it when he doesn’t have to carry a conversation, finding himself quickly running out of things he wants to say, or to hear himself say. “I know the feeling.”

“Do you not enjoy your work?”

“No, I’m just an anxious and irritated person.” Kensei is gratified with a broad smile from Tousen for that one, which is not bad given Kensei’s incredibly small degree of experience telling jokes. Ah, yes. Charisma. Humor. Normal human conversations. He can do this.

Tousen has the impression of being someone who isn’t easy to entertain. Kensei chooses to believe for now that he’s a rare exception to that rule, and that Tousen isn’t just humoring him out of the piety of his heart. Life is easier when you don’t try to read into things and decode behavior.

Tousen’s low voice rings with gravity. “It sounds like the water is ready.”

“Right.” Kensei’s never thought of it before in such terms, but in the process of combining water and tea in the pot he realizes making tea for someone is a fairly intimate experience. There’s a measure of closeness at home when Kensei or one of the kids offers to fill the electric kettle, a warmth of something being shared even under casual circumstances. The fact that Tousen goes the full nine yard with a real stove kettle and teapot makes the scenario feel ceremonial. Sanctimonious.

Kensei’s hands are hot from the steam rising off the porcelain lid and the spout. The air smells like herbal remedy and spices. Tousen waits patiently at the kitchen table, waiting to be served. Does he use the teapot often, going through the ritual of making tea in the elaborate, proper way when he’s at home by himself? What convinces a man to buy a tea set when he lives alone, aside from the expectation that he will one day be using it to serve someone else?

Kensei doesn’t mind making tea, the same way he doesn’t mind cooking or cleaning or driving. He likes the heat on his hands, the process of making. The shape and form of tools in his palm, carving out his existence. ‘I am here’.

“You take sweetener?”

“No, thank you.”

Kensei comes to the table with two cups of strong, pure tea, in mugs that are textured around the outside like they’ve been broken and glued back together. They grind against the callouses on his fingers.

He likes Tousen. A lot. Would like to impress him, if possible. Not in the way that Kensei would classify as an infatuation. Kensei doesn’t even know if the attraction is sustainable. If he were to wake up tomorrow morning and all feelings for Tousen were gone, he’d be disappointed but not surprised.

Kensei will be turning 56 next summer. He has one kid to put through college and one’s loans to pay off. He doesn’t have the time or the energy or the desire anymore to fall hopelessly and passionately in attraction with someone, make a whole big thing out of it. There had been times in the past, yes, where perhaps he did have that desire. But those years are long ago, and Kensei’s not looking for someone to complete him anymore.

Why, then, does sitting here at Tousen’s table feel like being in a dream? Heat rising from teacups. Sunlight streaming from the open windows. Tousen’s fingertips barely touching each other around the outside of his cup, while Cricket weaves between the table legs.

Kensei tries to find the words to explain to Tousen what he is thinking. His feelings are not complicated. His wants are not contradictory with his needs. For once in his entire life, everything is set up to be easy.

Somehow, though, he fails to find them.

-

Kensei makes it a point not to clean up Mashiro and Shuuhei’s rooms. Because yes, it’s of course important that they take care of their own space, but it’s also a matter of respect. Kensei could never be the kind of parent who went snooping through his kids’ belongings even accidentally, looking for a reason to confirm his worst suspicions.

Mashiro went through phases when she was younger of religiously keeping a diary for a few weeks at a time, and as much as curiosity killed Kensei he did resist it. Kensei has absolutely no envy for parents of younger kids who are being raised with social media, the rise of anti-privacy and the way it targets children. Kensei’s childhood was rough, but he finds himself perpetually worrying about children of the modern day. Paternal instinct or something.

This is a rare occasion where Kensei does have cause to go into Mashiro’s room, collecting the coffee and tea mugs that have been collecting grime at her desk.

Mashiro’s bedroom has changed very little since she was a teenager- she likes loud and colorful things, her floral bedspread dotted with stuffed animals that she made herself, designed to be intentionally ugly and out of mismatched fabric. Apparently Mashiro did inherited some of Kensei’s craft-making talent and just prefers to use it for her own dark deeds.

Kensei kicks aside a pile of dirty t-shirts, the walls are plastered with posters curling around the edges. And has he picks up no less than seven (7!) mugs from the top of Mashiro’s desk, his wrist collides with the corner of a sketchpad that flops lifelessly to the floor.

Well. Kensei has watched enough bad tv to know where this is going.

The sketchbook feels weighty in Kensei’s hands, containing thick paper for presumably intense artistry. He sees thick, fine lines of black ink spread purposefully over a pristine white page, the imagine of a girl drawn in manga style expressively leaping across the paper while wearing a detailed superhero costume. The page is full of dynamic panels, poses conveying power. It’s so Mashiro all over, Kensei feels a simmering pride.

“Hey!” He’s unsurprised to hear Mashiro’s voice before a bolt of green streaks into the room. Mashiro is still wearing her t-shirt and name tag from her job at the comic store, frowning at him with pouty lips and big, puffed up cheeks. “That’s mine! Who just goes into their daughter’s room without permission and looks through their stuff? This is tyranny! This is fascism!”

“You drew this?” Kensei asks, which is a stupid question. “It’s really good.”

Surprisingly, Mashiro’s face goes bright red. Kensei can’t recall the last time Mashiro was genuinely flustered or embarrassed about something, all suddenly shy as she snatches the sketchbook out of his hands. “Kensei, you just think that ‘cuz you’re a dad. It’s just doodles ‘n junk.”

Kensei is no artist, but he’s pretty sure that ‘just doodles’ is what artist-types call stuff they actually worked hard on. That’s what he thinks, anyways. “Did you show this to Love? He’d pro’lly like it.” Love has always been saying he wanted to work on a new manga. He and Mashiro would probably be a powerful duo.

Mashiro has always been an expressive person. Just never expressing herself in the way that her teachers wanted her to. Couldn’t sit still at a desk, couldn’t be quiet and focus. Couldn’t really keep a filter between her brain and her mouth. It came as no surprise to Kensei that Mashiro wanted to finish undergrad as soon as possible, maybe do some soul-searching before deciding what she really wanted.

The sketchbook is held tightly to Mashiro’s slim chest, her big blue eyes glaring at the corner of the room as she sulks deeply. Is this what she found in that search? “I just get a lotta ideas from working at the store and whatever. You just don’t know any better about art. Neither does Love, he just reads too much manga.”

“You’re such a weird kid sometimes…” Kensei says, though he knows when he says it it’s different than when Shuuhei calls Mashiro weird. Mashiro was Kensei’s entire world for half of his life. He doesn’t know who he’d be without her. “You should show him, a’right? It’s really good. Your drawings and stuff.

“Yeah, maybe…” Mashiro has never been someone that can be easily pushed around. She defies, often just for the sake of defiance. But once in awhile, if she’s on the fence and Kensei needles her just right, everybody can get their way.

Successful parenthood is adjacent to successful hostage negotiation.

-

Tousen is the one who suggested taking a walk. “Tea is all well and good, but if we keep to the same routine with no variation, our schedule will soon become Pavlovian.” he said, which Kensei translates as a fancy way of saying he wanted a change of pace.

He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to think of these meetings as dates. If Tousen wants to do something different than have tea with him, then surely that indicates he wants to see Kensei more than just the one time a week, right? Kensei frowns and tucks himself into a heavy fleece and shoes he can be comfortable walking in. He spends most of the day on his feet. Not like Tousen will be concerned with how he looks, right?

October fell on them before anyone was ever ready, Kensei’s face is hit with a blast of cold air as soon as the lobby door opens to the front terrace. It’s so strange to have spent all summer anticipating the trees turn yellow and the sky go gray, then for it to happen all at once. It’s nostalgic of the early years, wrapping Mashiro and Shuuhei in scarves and taking them out to the countryside to pick pumpkins.

Tousen is already waiting on the walkway, dressed in a wool coat and the red and white cane at his hip. However, he isn’t alone, and Kensei suddenly less sure about this not-date before realizing that’s a dumb way to think.

“Tousen?” Kensei announces himself before approaching, and Tousen turns around to greet him in response. The man with Tousen also greets him with a flash of his eyebrows and very little else in change of expression.

“Muguruma-san, hello.” Tousen says, sounding perhaps a little distracted. Whatever he and the other man were talking about, it must have been awfully absorbing. “I came out a little early to get some air and ran into my good friend, Sajin Komamura. Sajin, Muguruma is my neighbor. He’s the one with the helpful son.”

Not that being described this way doesn’t make Kensei feel about a million years old, but he’s at least gratified to see that Komamura looks roughly the same age as him. He’s a big, big man. Possibly the second largest that Kensei has ever seen, if he’s been mentally measuring Hachigen right all these years. He has a severe look about him, with long and blond hair tied back in a low ponytail. He wears a professional-looking gray suit that he seems to be on the verge of exploding out of.

Sajin gives Kensei a polite, shallow bow, which is expected of a professional-looking person but still strikes Kensei as awfully formal. “Muguruma-san, hello. Kaname tells me you’ve been good company to him.”

“Yeah.” Kensei says, because he’s not exactly sure how he’s meant to respond. Is that Tousen’s way of saying they’re close friends, or is ‘good company’ one of those very polite ways of indicating you wanna date somebody in such roundabout terms. Also, what is all this ‘Sajin’ and ‘Kaname’ business? It feels odd to hear such serious-looking people use given names so freely.

“Well, I’m sure I didn’t mean to hold you two up.” Sajin straightens his very important-looking tie. “Kaname, I will be seeing you tomorrow evening?”

Tousen puts his fingers to his temple as if uncovering some buried memory. “Ah, yes. It slipped my mind- I have some things I need to pick up from the store, you know I would appreciate your help.”

“Of course, it’s no trouble.” Sajin holds out his hand to receive a stiff and passionless handshake from Kensei. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Muguruma-san.”

“You, too.” Kensei fights the feeling of indignation that an entire conversation as whirlwinded about him. He is left looking at Komamura’s broad back as he struts away until Kensei and Tousen are out of earshot. “He’s… friendly.”

“Sajin has a habit of intimidating people at first, but he’s quite sociable once he gets to know you. Fortunately, appearances have never meant much to me.” Tousen explains, unfolding his cane and touching the tip to the sidewalk. “We should begin now.”

Kensei follows Tousen’s lead, still unraveling the unexpected encounter. “I didn’t mean to say I was intimidated by him.”

“Of course.” Is Tousen smirking at him?

“You two just seemed very friendly with each other, is what I meant?”

“You notice strange things, Muguruma-san. Though I guess you’re not wrong.” Tousen seems very familiar with this path, anticipating curves in the walkway before Kensei notices them. It’s sunny this way, and the flush of the sun cuts through the cold air. “I’ve known Sajin for so long, we’ve just gotten used to each other. All formality has faded away there.”

Kensei’s mind flits to his friends. Shinji, Rose, Love, Lisa, Hiyori, Hachigen…. Yeah, Kensei can hardly say he doesn’t know what that’s like.

Whoo boy. Explaining that situation is going to take some time.

“I think I know what you mean.”

Tousen makes a “hmm” noise through pursed lips. Kensei has known a few social workers in his days, and not all of them have been particularly helpful. Tousen has the kind of schoolteacher look to him, bitterly stubborn in his ways. “I have to say, I don’t find this jealous streak attractive on you. I don’t believe you’re being fair.”

Is Kensei being scolded? His frown twists severely across his face, eyes piercing down his nose to become very absorbed in an interesting crack in the sidewalk. “Presumptuous all the sudden, aren’t we?”

There’s a nice, long, awkward pause of silence after that. Fortunately, the more Kensei thinks about it the more he’s not quite as steamed. Rose once told him he has a hard time letting things go, which was supposed to improve with his years and not just make him increasingly bitter.

A sound falls from Tousen like a sigh. With one hand he removes his sunglasses, tucking them into the front pocket of his shirt. “I have been this way all my life, you know. I enjoy being on my own sometimes, and I detest having to ask for help. But it occasionally becomes necessary for me to rely on others, like Sajin and your son. You would think that I would be comfortable trusting other people by now, but that’s simply not the case. So be honest with me… please, Kensei.”

Well, of course.

How many times had Kensei himself been at the mercy of other people, only for it to bite him in the ass? When he had been orphaned and alone, when he ran away from the orphanage to try and find something better on his own. He can’t imagine being in Tousen’s shoes, with the whole world treating him like glass.

“Mashiro and Shuuhei… are the most important things in my whole world.” Kensei says the words before he really thinks about them. Before he tastes them, heavy and sticky on his tongue. “Being a parent was the first thing that I think really made sense to me.”

It did feel right. It felt like the missing piece. It felt like maybe all those years of learning to survive on his own, then taking care of other people, cooking and cleaning and supporting them, was always leading up to Mashiro and Shuuhei.

“But they’re not babies anymore. I can’t protect them all the time, or hide things from them when it gets rough.”

The wind runs through the trees, cutting right through Kensei’s fleece and his skin down to the bone. It bites at the end of Kaname’s orange scarf, gnawing red on his nose and pink lips.

Kensei smells the distant smoke of a bonfire in a neighbor’s yard. Of years with his kids gone by, with his friends, with himself and his mind. He feels the decades on his shoulders and his neck and his stomach and his brain. Tastes it on his teeth and his dry lips before he speaks.

“I don’t wanna be left behind alone with this.”

Tousen’s hands wear black gloves, slick to the touch. They crack softly with old leather when his fingers move, firm and old and comfortable, and curl around Kensei’s arm. Tousen’s voice is as dry as the yellow leaves pasted to the sidewalk, more stubborn than the bare-stripped trees that they dropped from.

“Then don’t be.”

-

“It sounds like you really like this guy.”

Lisa’s house smells like paper and coffee. She has a bad habit of leaving dirty mugs out and paper scattered across the table, just like Mashiro, and Kensei has a bad habit of cleaning up when he comes over. When you know someone for a very long time, habits become rituals. That isn’t what they’re doing today, though,

Kensei grunts, jamming the head of the screwdriver under the the lid of the metal can. It pops open with a crack, and the smell of chemicals floods the air. New. Clean. Kensei pours the mint green paint into the tin. “He’s alright.”

“You don’t go out of your way to make new friends. Usually, we have to push you in order to get you outta that big old personal bubble. Shinji wanted me t’ make you a grindr profile.”

Kensei cringes, giving Lisa a painted look. She pushes her glasses up on top of her head, flecks of paint on the rim of her overalls. “I’m not ready for that.”

He’s known Lisa since they were both kids, though she was 10 when he was 18. She still looks young, divorced from her age with her pigtails and her short skirts and her thick reading glasses. She babysat for him so much, Mashiro thinks of her as a sister more than an aunt.

But she’s not a kid. And Kensei sometimes thinks she’s the closest thing to an adult he knows.   
“Right.” Lisa wields one of the paint rollers, and with her glasses and bangs pushed out of the way Kensei can see the full blue of her eyes. “And you said this dude was a counselor or something?”

“Social worker.” Kensei corrects her, covering a nice, wide swatch of wall with paint. Kensei showed Lisa how to tape the space around the doors and windows before you paint the rest of the wall. Fill in the big gaps before approaching the details. Dad stuff. “He volunteers at counseling. For domestic assault survivors.”

“Shit, that’s pretty cool.” Lisa stretches to her full height, which is not all that much, in an attempt to reach the top of the wall with the roller. “You think thing’re gonna get serious with him?”

Serious. What does that even mean? Like, does Kensei plan to move in with him? Are they going to go on trips after Shuuhei has moved out, leaving Mashiro at home for the weekend?

Are there going to be long conversations, revisiting memories and sharing those things that they don’t share with anyone else?

Kaname told Kensei why he got into social work and into counseling. It was a rougher ride than Kensei had expected.

‘There was, perhaps, a dark time in my life,’ Kaname had said. ‘I did things I’m not proud of, with people I’d prefer not to talk about. I was so angry. I’m still angry, and I don’t think I will ever not be.’

Kaname said before that he hated asking for help, being forced to rely on people. Getting close to him means Kensei will be willingly inflicting his help and support onto Kaname, whether he wants that or not. It’s a lot of responsibility.

Kensei grunts. “I’m not going ring shopping any time soon, if that’s what you’re asking.”

But- he could still be there. Kaname could learn how to ask him for help, the way that Kensei has learned to ask others. Things could be good. They could be good.

“I like him, though.” Kensei says, pushing a stiff-tail brush to smooth out an uneven glob of paint. It looks good. Like the place is brand new.

Kensei has never seen Kaname wear jewelry, and without meaning to he wonders if that also could eventually change.


End file.
